


blame it on the alcohol

by hobbitual



Series: D/s Hydra Husbands [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Cuddling, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Fear, Feminization, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Movie Reference, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitual/pseuds/hobbitual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>jack's pov this time! this is very dubcon and the warnings and rating will increase in the future so please use discretion! please enjoy and thank you for reading!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Спишем всё на алкоголь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036095) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> jack's pov this time! this is very dubcon and the warnings and rating will increase in the future so please use discretion! please enjoy and thank you for reading!

There's a hissing noise as Jack pops the cap off of two beer bottles in the kitchen. It's the first day of the full week that he and Brock have off from their work schedule and relaxing with alcohol is definitely Jack's idea of a good vacation. Watching Brock get tipsy off of his first two beers is an added bonus.

 

“Are you baking a fucking cake in there, Rollins? Let's get hammered already!” Brock yells from where he's sprawled lengthways on the armchair in Jack's living room, legs hanging off the armrest.

 

Alright, relaxing might be too strong of a word.

 

“I'm comin', your majesty, if you'd keep it down,” Jack says, his voice at an acceptable volume; the distance between the living room and the kitchen doesn't bear shouting but, of course, Brock has to be a damn drama queen.

 

Jack finishes off opening the beer bottles, tossing the bottle caps into a canister with an innumerable amount of other discarded caps. It's a habit he's kept since he was old enough to buy his own beer. Maybe a little bit of an eccentricity, but a man's gotta have a hobby.

 

When Jack steps out of the kitchen and into Brock's line of sight, Brock gives him an over-enunciated “finally” for his troubles, extending his arms out and making a grabbing motion for his beer with both hands.

 

“Do I really want to give an overgrown five year old alcohol?” Jack scoffs, watching as Brock gets increasingly agitated over Jack not giving him his beer yet. Jack couldn't ask for better entertainment.

 

Brock glares up at Jack, ceasing his grabby motions and crossing his arms. He tilts his head back against the chair's other armrest and resolutely stares at the ceiling, brow furrowed. “Sorry I'm not ninety and I don't take a fucking millennium to get from one room to the other. Not like we've been waiting all year for this week off or anything.”

 

“Uh huh,” Jack says, walking around the armchair to stand in front of the side Brock is resting his head on. Brock has to tilt his head back further to meet Jack's eye, and from that point of view Jack is upside down. “Hear that? Sounds like the world's smallest violin.”

 

Brock gives Jack his patented bitch face, mumbles something that sounds very close to “fucking tool,” and breaks eye contact with Jack by bringing his head back up from its craned-backwards position. No doubt it's uncomfortable to keep that up for long.

 

Isn't that just a shame?

 

Jack whistles sharply, making Brock's body freeze in place; a click from Jack's tongue and Brock is tilting his head back again, and their eyes meet. Brock's eyes are just a tiny bit clouded, but Jack has his full attention, upside down and all. Jack can't help smirking at the sight Brock makes.

 

Brock regains some of his composure, licking his lips before muttering a quiet “what do you want?”

 

Jack, one beer bottle in each hand, raises the one meant for Brock and tilts the neck down so the amber colored liquid is dangerously close to spilling out. “Open up, darlin',” he says, and tilts the bottle the final centimeter needed for the beer to pour. Maybe a little too close to Brock's carefully styled hair, but who's keeping track?

 

“Jesus fucking – !” Brock manages to yell before he has to push his entire body up with his hands braced on the armchair cushions, barely making it in time for the stream of alcohol to pour into his open mouth. With the way his neck is craned back, it's increasingly difficult to swallow, and Brock has to let the beer collect in his mouth until Jack finally stops. Brock takes a large, painful sounding gulp and swallows the beer that's accumulated in his mouth and throat. Wiping the sticky remnants off his cheeks from where some had spilled onto his face regardless of how hard he had tried to avoid that happening, Brock vaults himself up and out of the armchair, his gaze shooting daggers at Jack. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?!” Brock shouts, and Jack notices his eyes have started watering. Not bad, that.

 

Jack shrugs, holding out the beer bottle for Brock to take. “You just looked so comfy there. 'Scuse me for thinkin' I'd do you a favor, keep you from gettin' off your throne. In the presence of royalty and all.”

 

Brock snatches the bottle from Jack's hand, not bothering to be careful to avoid a spill with a quarter of the beer missing. “You were the one that was all gung-ho for us to start drinking in the first place, asshole. I distinctly remember you telling me to take a seat while I get everythin' set up here, won't take a minute,” Brock says, viciously mocking Jack's accent, purposely putting it on thick.

 

Jack narrows his eyes imperceptibly, not quite appreciating being mocked in such a childish manner. With two fingers in the center of Brock's chest, Jack uses the strength in his forearm to push Brock back into the armchair in a normal sitting position. While Brock struggles not to upend the entire beer bottle on himself from the force of being pushed, Jack grabs his wrist, wrenching Brock's arm up to his face, forcefully shoving the mouth of the bottle between Brock's lips. He meets Brock's eyes, pushing Brock's wrist forward, forcing him to drink while maintaining eye contact the entire time. Jack hasn't blinked once.

 

Brock, on the other hand, is visibly afraid. His eyes are wide, and it's hard to tell if they're watering like earlier or Brock is trying not to let real tears fall. Jack can feel his wrist trembling in his grip. Brock is breathing hard through his nose between gulps, panicked and quick.

 

When the bottle is halfway empty, Jack loosens his grip on Brock's wrist and gently pulls it from between Brock's lips. Brock coughs, wiping the moisture from his eyes. Jack thinks that's just a way for Brock to break eye contact but he's fine with it. When Brock hesitantly looks back up, Jack blinks once and smiles down at him.

 

“Enjoyin' yourself, huh? Just what I like to see.”

 

Brock nods shyly, moving to hold the bottle with both hands. He looks down at the bottle and picks at the label with one thumb. “Thank you, sir,” Brock says in a quiet voice.

 

Jack chuckles and thumbs the corner of Brock's mouth where there's residual stickiness, not failing to notice how Brock's hands go still around the bottle when Jack moves his hand near Brock's face. “None of that this week,” Jack says. “This is time for old fashioned R&R. Nothin' less. Right?”

 

“Absolutely,” Brock says, a shaky yet hopeful looking smile on his face. He lifts the half empty bottle in the air, wordlessly asking Jack to clink their bottles together in a toast.

 

Jack grins brightly and taps the neck of his own full bottle against Brock's, making a clinking noise that rings loudly throughout the apartment. Afterward, Jack takes a long pull from the bottle. The taste is sweet and he's satisfied.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o k a y this kinda wrote itself and rating has not gone up yet, this is almost entirely fluff buuut i hope you enjoy :^) next chapter for sure will have some spiciness lmao
> 
> thank you for reading!

With a case of beer at the ready next to the couch, Jack and Brock are, if you'd be so inclined to call it such, cuddling.

 

After finishing off their first drinks for the night, Jack had flopped down to lay lengthways on the couch, pulling Brock with him, making Brock almost faceplant into Jack's broad chest. Brock had caught himself in time, pushing himself up with both palms flat against Jack's shoulders and glared down at him incredulously.

 

“Are you done manhandling me now?” Brock asked, moving to relocate himself to sit up near the end of the couch.

 

“Not quite,” Jack had replied, and pulled Brock down to his chest again. Before Brock could let out a word of protest, Jack had a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in for a bruising kiss. Brock had melted into the kiss almost immediately, wrapping his arms around Jack's shoulders and slotting their bodies together as close as possible after the first hint of Jack's teeth against his bottom lip.

 

Jack broke the kiss first, pressing his thumb against Brock's lips when Brock had tried to get Jack to kiss him again. Brock's eyes had fluttered open, pupils blown, his breathing a tad labored. Jack had taken a minute to commit this image of Brock to memory; pure, uninhibited lust like this wasn't something Brock had shown very often up until now – Brock usually held back during simple things like kissing, only allowing himself to be uninhibited during their more...extreme activities. When disappointment at no longer being kissed senseless began to cloud Brock's expression, Jack ran the pad of his thumb against the soft texture of Brock's bottom lip.

 

“Forgive me for earlier?” Jack said quietly, watching the pulse point beating in Brock's neck. Brock swallowed reflexively and Jack committed that to memory, too. “Just slipped up for a second. Drinkin' gets my adrenaline up sometimes. Won't happen again, promise.”

 

Brock had taken long enough to answer that Jack had regrettably torn his gaze off of Brock's neck to look into his eyes. Jack wasn't sure what exactly he had seen there. Brock had looked at Jack like a man in love (and who could blame him, really?), with a shadow of lust lingering around the edges, but – there was something else. Confusion? Trepidation? ...Doubt? It was almost impossible to ascertain. With some time to think about it Jack would surely figure it out. But right now, more important things are at hand.

 

Jack moved his hand from Brock's lips to behind his ear, rubbing firmly at the skin, feeling the bone underneath. Jack brought his other hand up to trail his fingertips up and down Brock's spine, making him shiver and wriggle on top of Jack from the combined sensations. Jack had suspected Brock had an erogenous zone behind his ears; watching Brock as closely as he does, he notices Brock's self-soothing techniques and, well – Jack couldn't help but smirk at the sight.

 

“What do you say, sweet thing? Give daddy a chance to make it up to you?”

 

Brock made an irritated groan at that, features twisting into a scowl. Squeezing his eyes shut, he let himself fall entirely onto Jack, pushing his face into the side of Jack's neck. Jack laughed, bringing his arms up to give Brock a strong hug around the middle of his back. Brock muttered a muffled “shut the fuck up” into Jack's neck before moving to settle his head against Jack's chest, the top of his head underneath Jack's chin.

 

“Comfy now?” Jack asked.

 

“Your stupid hair was tickling my nose,” Brock grumbled, wiggling in an effort to get comfortable.

 

Jack scoffed at that, bringing a hand up from Brock's back to run his fingers through the top of Brock's hair, down the shaved part, to rest on the back of his neck.

 

Brock let out a contented sigh, always enjoying Jack's touch on his hair.

 

“This isn't fucking cuddling, by the way,” Brock said after a few minutes of silence. “Don't start your shit. And we're still getting hammered tonight. In a bit.”

 

A real smile lit up Jack's face at that. He had been expecting a comment like that at any moment and, of course, his boy hadn't failed to deliver. Jack hummed his assent, pressing a kiss to the top of Brock's head.

 

His slip-up from earlier successfully dealt with, Jack thinks tonight is going just as planned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theres a new content warning so please use discretion! thank you for reading so far and id love to know what you think :^)

Brock is sweating.

 

Not too much, just a little dampness on the skin near his hairline. Jack watches as Brock wriggles and shifts, trying to get comfortable while carefully doing his best not to disturb the loose circle of Jack's arms around his body. Even though he's clearly overheating, clothes probably starting to stick to him, he doesn't want Jack to let go. Poor thing.

 

Jack brings a hand up to touch the side of Brock's neck, moving his other arm to hang off the edge of the couch. His fingertips brush the cool glass of the beer bottles still in the cardboard case. “You okay?” Jack asks, surreptitiously feeling for Brock's pulse point. A little fast. Not as fast as when they were kissing, but enough for Jack to take note of anyway.

 

“M'fine,” Brock answers, his voice a little more husky from disuse. Even then, Jack can hear the disappointment in his tone. “Just – it's hot in here. Do you always have to keep it this warm? It's like you're cold blooded or something, Jesus. I'm turning down the thermostat.”

 

“You're not goin' _anywhere_ near that. We're not livin' in an igloo. Besides,” Jack says, grabbing a beer out of the case. It's still cold from the fridge. “I've got somethin' better.”

 

Brock yelps loudly as Jack pushes the cold bottle against the side of his neck, scrambling to get out of reach. “Come the fuck on, Rollins!” Brock shouts, ending up straddled over Jack, angling his upper body as far away from Jack's arms as he can while protecting his neck with his hands. He's panting a little now, just enough to chalk up to the shock of cold glass against unsuspecting skin.

 

Jack smirks, partly due to Brock's normal theatrics after a bit of teasing but mostly at the sight of his fingers curled around his neck. Brock's hands are as scarred and callused as Jack's own, capable and sure on the field, but Brock's fingers have always been delicate. Looking at them now, Jack knows he could snap the bones like twigs if he wanted to. Though, that wouldn't be very nice of him, would it?

 

“Alright, alright, I'm sorry,” Jack laughs. “Up, off the furniture. Think I lost the bottle opener.”

 

Brock rolls his eyes, obviously not pleased with Jack's turn of phrase. A flush is creeping up his neck into his cheeks, easy to pass off as blushing from embarrassment. Brock wears his heart on his sleeve, as loathe as he is to admit it even to himself. It makes it so much easier for Jack to know what buttons to press to wind him up and watch him go.

 

“Maybe because it's in the kitchen where you usually leave it,” Brock says, moving to climb off of Jack's lap. “I'll look for it. I'm going to die of thirst at this –“

 

“No,” Jack says, a little too sharply. Brock starts to stiffen like he had when Jack lost his temper earlier, his body language showing the start of a fight or flight reaction and that's the _last_ thing Jack needs to happen right now. Cursing inwardly at himself for letting his impatience get the better of him while the situation is still fragile, Jack motions for Brock to get off his lap so they can both stand. Jack shepherds Brock back to the armchair he'd claimed as his own before they'd decided on impromptu cuddling and motions for him to take a seat.

 

“Nah,” Jack says, making sure to soften his voice this time. “The kitchen's a mess right now and it's my own damn fault, can't keep track of anythin' lately. I got it. Go ahead and put a movie on, anythin' you like.”

 

Brock's eyes light up at that. Or maybe they're starting to get a little glassy? Either way, Jack is relieved he managed to circumvent another mistake from ruining what he's got planned.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Brock grins. “We're watching –“

 

“Scarface,” Jack and Brock say in unison, a bashful smile forming on Brock's face afterward.  
  


“Bet you know it by heart at this point,” Jack says. He finds the DVD case easily thanks to Brock leaving it near the DVD player, no doubt to make it easier to watch it again. After popping the DVD out of the case and into the disk tray, he throws the case at Brock, watching as he fumbles what would otherwise be an easy catch.

 

“Alright,” Jack says, grabbing another beer from the case. “Be back in a tic with the bottle opener. Go ahead and start the movie.”

 

“'Kay,” Brock answers. Sweet, that. Brock only says that when he's feeling especially vulnerable, Jack's noticed, like when he's half asleep. Things are progressing at a decent pace, but...

 

Fuck it. Jack's never claimed to be a good guy.

 

When he makes it to the kitchen, Jack has to take a steadying breath. Jesus, but he's almost fucked this up too many damn times and all in the name of impatience. Hypocritical of him, really, to preach patience to Brock just to rush things along himself but when will he get an opportunity like this again?

 

Drugging someone without making it obvious isn't something you can do every day.

 

Setting the beers on the counter, Jack opens one of the cupboards. Pushed to the very back, behind bowls and cups, is an amber colored bottle of clear liquid with the accompanying dropper lying next to it. Jack had sneaked a single drop in Brock's first beer from earlier, following the advice of the person he'd gotten it off of. Shady character but what can you expect, pulling off something like this? He'd been told a drop should be sufficient, showing full effects in an hour to an hour and thirty minutes, and so far that rang true.

 

But Jack _can't_ fucking wait anymore. He's too fixated on what comes next.

 

He picks up the bottle, swirling the liquid contents and watching it splash against the sides. Does he want to do this? Yes. Is it a good idea to do this? ...Probably not.

Jack picks up the dropper, collecting enough liquid in it for two more drops and lets them fall into one of the beers.

 

He lets the drug settle itself in the beer and turns to grab the bottle opener left on the counter. Tossing it in the air and easily catching it one-handed, Jack takes in everything in front of him and beyond in the living room. The beer bottles, the drug paraphernalia beside them; he can hear the opening credits for the movie, volume turned up too damn loud, the way Brock always has it. Jack takes a single, deep breath and exhales slowly.

 

It's now or never.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND HERE IS THE FINAL CHAPTER HOLY SHIT its been a wild ride
> 
> new content warnings and the rating has gone up so please use discretion!
> 
> i hope you enjoy and thank you so much for coming this far with me with this story. i would absolutely love to know what you thought! :^)

Collecting both bottles in one hand and the bottle opener in the other, Jack makes his way back into the living room. He's steadied his breathing and smoothed out any anxiety that might show on his face; Brock probably wouldn't notice anything off with the state he's in, but it doesn't hurt to be careful.

 

When he steps into the living room, Jack has to stop for a second and take in the picture in front of him. Brock is sitting on the armchair, legs pulled up in front of him with his knees under his chin and his feet on the cushion, toes curled around the edges of the seat. He's completely transfixed on the movie, hugging his knees tightly and biting his thumbnail like he's in anticipation of what comes next even though Jack knows he's seen the movie countless times already.

 

Jack gently pries Brock's fingers away from his mouth to press the beer bottle into his hand, smiling at Brock's almost complete lack of a reaction allowing Jack to position his fingers around the glass. Still not tearing his eyes away from the TV screen, Brock makes a quiet sound of appreciation. Jack leans in to press a kiss on the side of Brock's head, taking note of the deepening flush crawling up the side of Brock's neck into his cheeks.

 

Jack settles down on the couch, ready to enjoy the show.

 

 

On screen, Tony is being held at gunpoint while Angel gets dismembered with a chainsaw. The effects are pretty laughable, the fake blood just looking like ketchup to Jack every time he's watched this with Brock (and Jack knows better to say anything lest Brock bitch him out spectacularly).

 

That's when Jack hears – giggling? It's definitely not coming from the movie. Jack turns to look at Brock and again, he's taken aback by what he sees. Brock has his hands clasped over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle his laughter. He's not doing a very good job of it, his giggling audible even over the volume of the movie. He's going red in the face and Jack can't tell if it's an effect of the drug or if Brock's finally come to his senses about the quality of the 80's special effects.

 

“You okay?” Jack asks, trying to hide his own amusement at Brock's display. Better to act like nothing's weird about this. Brock's got his beer bottle wedged between his thighs and Jack sneaks a glance to see how much he's drunk; definitely over half, maybe three quarters. That explains that.

 

“Yes,” Brock gasps out between giggles. “Yeah, I'm just – it kinda looks like –”

 

“Ketchup?”

 

Brock is sent into gales of laughter from that, high-pitched and boyish. Jack's never heard him laugh like this and it almost makes him wish Brock would let go this way without needing to be under the influence of a third-party substance.

 

“You almost tore my head off when I said that,” Jack says, but it's unclear whether or not Brock even hears him with how determined he is to laugh himself hoarse.

 

“Glad you got that out of your system,” Jack says as Brock's laughter tapers off to stifled giggling again.

 

“Okay,” Brock says, catching his breath. “Okay, shut up, sh – watch. I'm done. 'Kay?”

 

“Not sure I'm the one who needs shuttin' up but no problem,” Jack says, taking a pull from his beer to hide his smirk. Brock is definitely slurring his words now.

 

 

They're about a quarter into the movie. Tony and Elvira are dancing in the nightclub, ludicrously badly, and as many times Jack's seen this movie for Brock's sake it always gives him a good laugh. Elvira tells a clueless Tony she's from Baltimore, making Jack almost snort beer out of his nose. Brock is suspiciously quiet but Jack doesn't think much of it.

 

When Tony is fervently denying Elvira's claims that he came off the banana boat, there's a loud thump and an “oops” from Brock's general direction. Jack blinks, confused, and looks away from the screen to find Brock laying halfway on the floor, upside down with his legs on the armchair cushion and head on the floor. Brock is staring up at the ceiling, perplexed.

 

“This isn't –” Brock hiccups. “How you sit, is it?”

 

“I wouldn't say so, no,” Jack says slowly. “What are you doin', honey?”

 

“I wanted to – I – I forget,” Brock stutters out, starting to laugh again. Attempting to climb back onto the armchair, Brock almost knees himself in the face. Jack watches him flail around for a minute before stepping in, getting off the couch and crouching down in front of Brock.

 

Brock's eyes are glazed over, his gaze not fully focused. Jack can feel the warmth radiating off his body, even more so when he rests a hand on Brock's belly to steady him before he ends up hurting himself for real.

 

Brock starts at the touch, looking up at Jack with wide eyes.

 

“Jack?” Brock says incredulously. “How did you get down here? Did you get – shorter?”

 

“Nah, pretty sure you're still the short stack around here.” Jack smiles inwardly at Brock's use of his first name rather than his surname. He could get used to this side of Brock, to be sure.

 

“Am not,” Brock mumbles, attempting to flip over onto his stomach now. Considering his legs are still resting on the armchair, this doesn't work out very well. Jack sighs, scooping Brock up into his arms bridal style.

 

Surprisingly, Brock doesn't put up a fight when Jack picks him up. He just makes an “oof” sound, letting Jack shift his body to better carry him.

 

“Come on, prom queen. You're too drunk for your own good,” Jack says, easily handling the weight of Brock in his arms and walking them both to the bedroom. “Time for bed.”

 

“Jack?” Brock questions, the tone of his voice making him sound sleepy. Jack looks down into Brock's face, his expression matching his tone. It's sweet, until Brock's face lights up in a devilish grin. He swings his arm up, moving almost like he's underwater, and presses an attempt at a finger-gun between Jack's eyes.

“Say hello to my little friend!” Brock laughs maniacally at this, flailing his arms and legs enough that Jack is in serious danger of dropping him before they get to the bedroom.

 

When they finally do make it to the bed, Jack deposits Brock on top of the sheets, watching him bounce lightly. To Brock, it seems, this is even funnier than his joke – he's laughing and rolling around on the surface of the bed, although Jack thinks he could just be enjoying the cool feeling of the sheets against his heated skin.

 

Brock calms down after a minute or two, laying on his back with his arms above his head. His eyes are closed, chest rising and falling deeply. Brock looks peaceful and relaxed enough that Jack has a fleeting second thought; maybe he should let Brock sleep this off, smooth over any complaints of side-effects of the drug as a bad hangover, just take the hard road and be truthful about what he wants and let Brock come into the idea on his own terms.

 

But the impatience from earlier comes rushing back, and Jack knows he can't do that. It's this way or no way. One would be hard-pressed to get him to admit it, but the anxiety of Brock never coming around to doing what Jack wants is too much for him to handle. Looking at Brock as he is now, Jack would rather have him pliable and sweet rather than sullen and moody and liable to ruin the whole experience. Jack knows Brock better than the man (boy, really) knows himself, knows that Brock is terrible at communicating anything other than anger in a bid to make himself look stone cold and unbreakable. Jack knows that's not who Brock is and more importantly, it's not what either of them want.

 

Locking any second thoughts away in the back of his mind, Jack joins Brock on the bed. When Brock feels Jack's weight on the mattress, he opens his eyes and smiles demurely. It's almost goofy – Brock looks like he's approaching black-out drunk with one eyelid at half-mast and the other open but most likely seeing double at this point.

 

Jack straddles Brock's waist and cradles the side of his face in one hand. He feels the sharpness of Brock's cheekbone, the softness of the skin over it. He takes in the pretty olive tone of Brock's skin and how his hazel eyes match it so perfectly. He runs the pad of his thumb down the bridge of Brock's nose, feeling the unevenness of the bone there from all the times Brock's had his nose broken on account of his smart mouth. Fitting, that – Brock's pretty mouth is the star of the real show tonight.

 

Jack's taken out of his reverie by Brock sneezing, loud in the silent room. Brock looks sheepish, embarrassed at ruining the moment. “Tickled,” Brock mumbles, bringing one of his arms down from above his head to hide his face behind his fingers.

 

“What am I gonna do with you?” Jack says, laughing warmly.

 

Brock shrugs gently, still hiding his face behind his fingers. Jack takes his chance at this, reaching behind a lamp on the bedside table. The small, rectangular tube is dwarfed in his hand – all the better to conceal it from Brock until Jack is ready.

 

Placing his closed fist on the bed in a semblance of keeping his balance, Jack uses his unoccupied hand to gently pry Brock's fingers away from his face.

 

“I ever tell you just how pretty you are?” Jack says. “You're beautiful.”

Brock's brow furrows at that, a tell for when he's going to put up a verbal fight, but this time he doesn't resist. He just looks unhappy, like Jack telling him he's beautiful is an insult. Jack knows Brock takes pride in his looks as far as his body is concerned – he never misses a chance to brag about his muscles and abs. But his face is a different story and Brock just doesn't seem to see what Jack sees.

 

Jack intertwines his fingers with Brock's and leans down to bring their faces together, tips of their noses touching. Brock goes cross-eyed trying to keep Jack's face in his line of sight, making Jack laugh.

 

Closing the distance between their lips, Jack kisses Brock firmly and presses him down into the mattress with his full body weight. Brock opens his lips to Jack's tongue, squeezing Jack's fingers between his own. Jack licks into the back of Brock's mouth, feeling the grooves of his teeth with his tongue. Brock shudders and gasps at the sensation, bringing his legs up to bracket Jack's hips. If one of Jack's hands weren't otherwise occupied, he would be pulling Brock's legs to wrap around his waist, but it can wait.

 

Jack pulls away from the kiss, making Brock let out a frustrated noise of desperation. Jack bites Brock's bottom lip in warning, sharp canine teeth leaving a sting on the soft, sensitive flesh. Brock makes a pitiful, hurt noise at that and Jack licks over Brock's lips lightly to soothe him.

 

“Hush,” Jack says against Brock's mouth. “I'm goin' to –” Jack has to swallow before he can continue. “We're gonna try somethin' new, okay?”

 

Brock nods dreamily. Sweat is dotting his forehead, and whether it's from the kissing or the drug is unclear. Jack sits up and lets go of Brock's hand, straddling him again. He switches the tube of lipstick from his right hand to his left, the fingers of his right hand trailing along the smooth surface of the tube.

 

This is what it's come down to.

 

Brock's eyes are closed, but when he notices Jack's silence he opens them. His gaze roams from Jack's face down to the gold tube in Jack's grasp. His expression is blank. Jack's heart is beating harder than a goddamn drum and it's taking all of his willpower to keep his expression neutral.

 

Brock stares at the tube of lipstick for about thirty seconds and opens his mouth. Jack is hyper focused on Brock's lips, his pink tongue and his teeth, and Jack can feel himself sweating now, waiting for Brock to say he wants to leave, won't let Jack make him look like a chick, Jack never even asked if he wanted this –

 

“What's that?”

 

Those two words have the same effect on Jack as ice cold water being poured on him. The realization that Brock wouldn't know what a tube of lipstick, or any other type of makeup, was if it hit him in the face is so relieving Jack has to laugh like he's high himself. Jesus, but Brock is too much sometimes.

 

Brock is pouting now, ineffectively trying to take the lipstick from Jack's grasp and inspect it himself. His movements are clumsy and all he manages to do is bat at Jack's hands with his own. “What's it for?” he says, giving up on grabbing it and just as ineffectually pushing at Jack's chest, hands flat against Jack's pecs.

“It's for you, princess,” Jack grins, letting Brock try his hand at pushing Jack around. “A present, just for you.”

 

“Not my birthday yet,” Brock slurs, flopping his arms down on the bed.

 

“Doesn't gotta be,” Jack says. He uncaps the tube, turning the dial on the bottom to bring up the lipstick itself. It's a soft pink, shiny and glossy and perfect. Jack brings it up to Brock's face, contrasting his skin tone with the color of the lipstick, enjoying it immensely. “My girl should always get to be pretty, any day of year.”

 

“I'm sure she appreciates that,” Brock says, clearly losing interest in the lipstick; he's looking around the room like he's never seen it before. Probably seeing all kinds of colors and shapes right now. That's just fine.

 

Jack grabs Brock's chin, keeping his head still. Brock can let his eyes go wherever they like; Jack will try mascara another time. For this, Brock's head needs to be perfectly still. Jack almost feels like he's performing some kind of surgery.

 

“What are you – okay,” Brock says, watching as Jack slowly brings the lipstick closer to his face. “I guess this is fine, whatever's happening right now –“

 

“Would you shut the fuck up for one minute?” Jack snaps, irritated with Brock's inability to let him do anything without having a running commentary. Even sober, Brock always has a comment for every little thing Jack does – it's especially infuriating when he's trying to concentrate. Jack almost wishes Brock would go back to giggling; at least he can do that close-mouthed.

Jack is expecting Brock to yell back, or at least pout, but Brock is just staring at him. His gaze is neutral, albeit glazed over. It's like Brock didn't even hear him at all. Jack isn't sure he wants to know what the hell is in that drug, but it's fulfilling its intended purpose and that's all he cares about.

 

Carefully pressing the lipstick against the middle of Brock's upper lip, Jack brushes the color outward to the left and right. It leaves Brock's top lip looking glossy and smooth, the soft pink color looking even better against Brock's skin now that it's finally, truly a part of his face. Jack does the same for Brock's bottom lip, doing his best to make it even.

 

Brock makes an 'mmph” noise, trying to shake off Jack's hand gripping his chin. “Hush,” Jack says again.

 

“Sticky,” Brock complains.

 

“You're fine,” Jack growls. “Now look at me. Press your lips together like this.” Jack demonstrates, smacking his lips lightly and watching Brock attempt to replicate it. It takes him a few tries and sets off more giggling, but Jack gets Brock to distribute the lipstick on the whole of his lips.

 

The result is...more than Jack could have hoped for.

 

Brock looks _gorgeous_ , pink never failing to suit him. Jack congratulates himself inwardly for knowing what's best, what will make Brock look the sweetest. Seeing Brock dolled up like this is almost too much to handle with a level head.

 

Jack caps the lipstick and sets it back on the nightstand. He takes Brock's head in his hands, one hand on either side of Brock's head and his thumbs on Brock's cheeks. He commits this scene to memory, almost breathless; all of his planning and waiting has finally paid off.

 

“You don't know what I want to do to you,” Jack whispers, looking into Brock's eyes. Brock's inability to focus on him is nothing to Jack – it doesn't matter. “I want to rip you apart, darlin'. Put you back together again, make you mine. This is just the start. I'll be gentle, don't worry. You're a fragile girl, I know. Meltin' on the inside and you think nobody can see it. I can.” Jack brings their faces together again, lips brushing against each other. The feeling of the lipstick on Brock's lips against Jack's own is enough to drive him wild. “I can,” Jack whispers again, and crushes their lips together.

 

The kiss is violent, animalistic in nature. Brock stiffens in surprise for a few seconds, never having been kissed like this by Jack (or anyone, probably) but he melts into it. Jack kisses Brock sloppily, tongue and teeth and spit all that either of them can feel. Jack smears Brock's lipstick with his tongue, bringing his fingers up to Brock's lips to do a better job of it. He bites Brock's lips, dragging his teeth down soft flesh, biting hard enough for there to be blood mixed with lipstick. When Jack pulls away, both of them are breathing hard. Brock looks a complete mess – lipstick smeared up and down his cheeks and chin, pupils blown and sweat dripping down his face in earnest now.

 

“Look at you,” Jack gasps. “Makin' a mess all over. You're a dirty girl.” Jack grins sharply as a thought enters his head. “You like being dirty, don'tcha? Wanna be even messier, baby girl?”

 

Brock, unable to take his eyes off of Jack's face, nods. He looks enraptured, completely in the moment. Jack only hopes it's how he really feels.

 

“Okay,” Jack says, sitting up and shuffling up with his knees on the bed. He stops when the crotch of his pants are at eye-level with Brock. He unbuckles his belt, metal buckle clattering thanks to his shaking hands. Unzipping his fly, he pulls his cock out, hard and heavy in his fingers. “Alright, sweetheart,” he says, stroking his cock lightly. “Open up.”

 

Brock parts his lips wide enough for Jack to fit the head of his cock in. Jack puts one hand on Brock's forehead, tilting his head back. Jack brings his cock down to meet Brock's lips, circling Brock's mouth with the head. The lipstick's soft shade of pink is an unbelievable contrast to the reddened, swollen flesh of Jack's cock. Jack feels a bead of precome at the tip and takes the chance to rub it against Brock's lips. Brock makes a helpless noise at that. Jack hushes him, rubbing circles on his forehead with the hand pressing Brock's head back.

 

“You're gonna be so pretty, sweetheart,” Jack says. “Prettiest girl in the world when I'm done with you.”

 

Jack pushes his cock between Brock's lips, settling the head against Brock's tongue. Brock licks at it the best he can, making Jack groan harshly in his throat. “That's it,” he says, “good girl.”

 

Brock moans at that, high and _girlish_. Jack looks into his eyes and sees neediness there, pleading, for Jack and his cock and his come.

 

Jack takes his cock out of Brock's mouth, holding it in front of Brock's eyes. He watches as Brock stares at it, transfixed and captivated.

 

“You want this, sweetheart? Want me to paint your face all pretty? Make your skin soft and make you look sweet for me?”

 

Brock nods and gives Jack a breathless “yes, sir.” Jack feels his cock throb at that, almost ready to go off.

 

“Anythin' for my girl,” Jack says, roughly stroking his cock. “Beautiful little princess, you are.”

 

Brock's eyelids flutter at the praise, he's finally given in and let Jack call him beautiful and – it's enough. Hot come splatters against Brock's face, his lips and cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It mixes with the pink of the lipstick, and Jack thinks Brock has never looked so exquisite as he does now.

 

Jack gives his cock a few final rough strokes, until it's oversensitive and spent. He pants, looking down at the vision Brock makes, splattered in come and lipstick smeared all over. Brock looks up at him in return, gorgeous in the low light of the room, all his walls down and his inhibitions gone.

 

“What a good girl,” Jack says, voice low. He rubs at the streaks of come on Brock's face, circling it into his skin. “Daddy loves you, princess.”

 

Brock mumbles something incomprehensible; he's falling asleep right then and there. Jack chuckles, remembering an effect of the drug is drowsiness after a certain amount of time. It's alright, it did its job for as long as he needed it to. Money well spent.

 

Jack continues rubbing his come into Brock's skin until there's not much left to work with. Brock's face is still covered in smeared lipstick, no doubt sticky and uncomfortable – Brock had been so out of it near the end he hadn't even complained about it.

 

Jack sighs, taking one last long look at Brock, perfect and destroyed all at once. He climbs off of Brock and gets off the bed, ready to clean up the mess he's made of Brock's pretty face.

 

Brock will probably wake up tomorrow with a blinding headache, or some other after-effect of the drug he'd taken. After Jack's done cleaning up every trace of lipstick and come, he'll finish off the case of beer and come morning, blame it on the alcohol.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @ usopp :^)


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